I Can't Withdraw Your Heart From Mine
by citronnellium
Summary: Post tGG, before aSiB. Moriarty has kidnapped John, intending on 'burning the heart out of Sherlock.' Sherlock will do anything to get him back. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

This is my second Sherlock fic, so I hope that it serves the characters justice. I'm worried that I won't stay true to their character… This starts literally just after The Great Game, right after Moriarty leaves. It is before A Scandal In Belgravia, though. I'm really nervous about this fic, so I hope you guys enjoy it~*!*~*!~

Also, I am not British in any way (except through blood). I have never been to anywhere in Britain, so I'm sorry if I don't use the right words to describe things, etc. If I make a mistake, feel free to make fun. I don't care. Just remember that I tried!

(P.S. I know my deduction skills are seriously lacking, and that the scenes where Sherlock does use his deduction skills…are…badly written…but I apologize in advance! Again, I tried my best! I'm really nervous about this fic, haha. Well, I hope you enjoy this.)

Oh, and, um, a warning for about...one curse worse? Possibly more, give a few or so. And...a murder.

* * *

><p>Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat, like clockwork. Programmed into his brain subconsciously until he takes the final breath. He was glad that the final breath wasn't mere minutes ago. He still had time. But with Sherlock, John wasn't sure how <em>much<em> time. He never knew, not with Sherlock.

Sherlock extended his hand towards John, and he took it. Of course he would take it. On shaky legs, like rubber, John stood. He wavered for a second before tightening his grip on Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, only placed his other hand securely on John's elbow. John cleared his throat.

"Thank God for the Bee Gees," John remarked, casually, as if his heart wasn't lodged in his throat. As if he wasn't just about to vomit everywhere. And despite himself, John laughed. It's a quiet thing, but it elicits a chuckle from Sherlock. They walked side by side out of the building, backs of hands brushing briefly, without notice. When they got outside, John inhaled deeply through his nose. Sherlock regarded him cautiously. John took another few breaths of air, like they were the last breaths he would ever take, and felt suddenly light headed. Late panic flooded his chest, stemming from his gut, and he swayed on his heels. Sherlock placed a reassuring hand on his back and John nodded in thanks just once.

Sherlock hailed a taxi once they were on the main street and it rolled up beside them. John got in first, sliding in carefully. Sherlock followed in after him.

"221b Baker Street," Sherlock ordered instantly. The cab drove off down the street, the buildings trailing behind them.

Sherlock glanced over to his friend who seemed to be hyperventilating and rose an eyebrow. "John, are you all right?"

John turned his head slowly to face Sherlock with an expression he couldn't quite read. His eyes were on something else. "Hm? Oh, yes, yeah, no, I'm fine."

Sherlock didn't believe him. He was obviously still feeling the after effects of the scene at the pool. But there was nothing Sherlock could do. He placed his hand on John's and patted it twice.

John finally looked at Sherlock, his expression still unreadable. This was beyond frustrating.

"What are you thinking, John?"

"I don't know," came his quick reply. He pulled his hand from Sherlock's and rested it in his lap. "I don't know. I'm just…I'm trying to…I don't know. I really don't. I'm trying to process what happened, but my brain doesn't want to. I think—oh God, I think I'm going to be sick—" He suddenly covered his mouth with both hands and Sherlock yelled at the cabbie to stop. John got out and just as his second leg swung out of the cab, vomit spewed past his lips. He coughed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He wiped that hand on his jeans and then pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes lightly.

When he was finally done dry heaving, he sat back in the cab. Eyes vacant, left hand shaking slightly, breath shallow and in small gasps. Sherlock noted this, of course. "John," he started.

John turned to face his friend and gave a weak smile. "I'm fine now. Cabbie, we can keep going."

"You sure, mate?" the cabbie asked, obvious disgust in his voice.

"Yes, _go,_" John commanded. The cabbie continued driving.

When they were up the stairs and in their flat, John raced to the bathroom to vomit once more. Sherlock heard liquid hit liquid and considered, for a moment, that he should go into the bathroom and console him. But thought better of it. John would want to deal with this on his own. _Stubborn._

John came out of the bathroom. His face was wet, as were his hands.

"Tea, Sherlock?" John asked, headed towards the kitchen as though nothing had happened.

"Yes, thank you. Just what the doctor ordered."

John grinned at that, but Sherlock saw it hadn't reached his eyes.

His eyes. They had glossed over. With…something. John's breathing was still quick and fluttery, but his hand had stopped quivering. John just looked…dazed. Lost. Like he was a ghost with a horrible past. Sherlock swallowed. He really hoped this wouldn't be permanent.

John took the kettle from the stove and poured the water into two cups. He set them both on little saucers and left one teabag beside the cup. Like some sort of subconscious ritual, John brought over the two saucers and then went to get the small ceramic pitchers of creme and sugar. He brought them over and placed them on the table beside Sherlock. He poured some of the creme into his own cup, the teabag floating at the top. John then dropped two spoons of sugar into the cup. He sat in his chair opposite of Sherlock and carefully blew on the steaming liquid.

After several minutes of pleasant silence, Sherlock cleared his throat again. "What a night, hm?"

John looked up ever so slowly from his cup and regarded Sherlock. Again, Sherlock couldn't read John's expression. It was as if John had pulled a mask right over his face and was hiding from the world. Sherlock didn't like it. He stared back into those glossy eyes.

"Yeah, what a night…I think I might head off to bed, now. If I'm not needed, or anything…" John spoke in a quiet voice, one Sherlock hadn't heard very often.

Sherlock nodded and bid goodnight to John. John headed back into the kitchen where he set his half-finished cup of tea in the sink and trailed up the stairs.

Sherlock counted—seventeen scuffled steps until John was on the floor above him. He heard John continue to scuffle around, into his room, where Sherlock then heard John collapse onto his bed with a loud _thump_.

It was nearing three A.M. when Sherlock went to check on John. He snuck up the stairs, minding the one that creaked when pressure was applied, and stood outside of John's room. Like a spectre, he turned the doorknob to the right and pushed open slightly. Just enough so he could see inside. Just enough so he could see John tangled in the mass of blankets, his clothes still on. Sherlock watched him sleep. John's back rose and fell evenly, obviously in a deep sleep. From here, Sherlock couldn't tell whether or not John's eyes were moving beneath his lids. John's face was pressed into his thin pillow, tilted ever so slightly to the side so he could breathe freely from his mouth.

Sherlock watched his friend sleep for what seemed like ages. He had managed to surprise himself when he finally realized he had stepped into John's room, only mere feet from the end of his bed. Sherlock wanted so badly to sit on the blankets beside John and hold his hand. He wanted to thank him, thank him for his bravery—thank him for attempting to sacrifice his own life for Sherlock's. But he couldn't bring himself to step any closer consciously. So he turned on his heel quietly and left down the stairs.

He hovered above the sink for a moment before deciding to wash the two cups quickly. Once his hands were dry, Sherlock fled into his own bedroom and stripped of his clothes. He left them on the floor in a crumpled heap before slipping under his blankets in only his underthings, chest bare.

He lay in bed, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, for at least thirty minutes. He had begun to count, but lost track once he hit twenty seven minutes and forty two seconds. His mind had gone utterly blank. As though it had been wiped completely. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock's brain had shut off. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips before he fell into unconsciousness.

Three weeks had gone by since the scene at the pool. John had already bought the plane ticket to New Zealand to visit an old friend.

"Sherlock, I'm leaving now. I'll be back in a few weeks. I've asked Missus Hudson if she could buy the milk, as I know you will forget. If you need me, I'm bringing my phone. I've left a number with Missus Hudson, as well, just in case you can't reach me. All right?" But John's goodbye had touched deaf ears.

Sherlock was reading the newspaper, engrossed in the obits.

"Sherlock, did you hear me? I'm leaving now. Goodbye!" John readjusted the suitcase handle in his hand, regripping it. But still, Sherlock wouldn't listen.

"Oi! Holmes!" he shouted rather loudly.

At last, Sherlock looked. "Hm? Oh, hello, John. Off to somewhere?" He regarded John's suitcase with a quick eye.

John just turned his gaze to the ceiling and let out a long sigh. He closed his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm leaving. New Zealand. We went over this when I bought the ticket last week. Do you ever listen to a thing I say?"

Sherlock feigned an appalled expression. He folded the paper and set it on the table beside him. "Of course I do, John. I just don't bother registering it."

John returned his gaze on Sherlock, his eyes slitted. "Well then. I'll see you in a few weeks."

Sherlock gave a tiny smile and picked up the paper again. He didn't bother saying goodbye formally.

John turned on his heel and left the flat. There was a cab already waiting for him. Mrs Hudson gave a quick kiss to John's cheek and patted the other side of his face.

"Safe trip now for you and Sarah, you hear? Call me right when you land," Mrs Hudson instructed.

"Of course, Missus Hudson. I'll talk to you soon."

"Not soon enough, John! Goodbye!" She waved goodbye to John as he slid into the cab, pulling in his suitcase after him.

The cabbie rolled down the street in blissful quiet and John actually smiled.

It was downright _boring_ without John to accompany him. There was a murder or two, but Sherlock wasn't keeping track of that. He would visit the scene, mindlessly go on about something irrelevant (yet still somehow _relevant_), and Lestrade would round up the murderer soon after. Several clients had dropped by 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock helped them all without a care. His mind was focused on more important things. When was John coming home? It had been some time, now, but he was't sure exactly how _much _time. Days rolled into nights, and Sherlock only slept when he collapsed into unconsciousness. He didn't keep track of the dates.

"Missus Hudson!" Sherlock shouted from his usual chair. He waited several seconds before yelling down to her again, louder this time.

Hurried footsteps made their way upstairs and the front door swung open. A frazzled and worried Mrs Hudson stood in the open doorway. "What is it, love? What's the matter?"

Sherlock crouched on his chair, his arms wrapping around his knees. "When is John coming home," he said, rather than asked.

Mrs Hudson brought a shaky hand to her forehead. "Goodness, Sherlock, you gave me a right fright…" She let out a sigh and went into the kitchen where a calendar hung on the wall. John's return date was circled in red marker. "April twenty second, dear. You could have just looked yourself. Not your mum, you know."

Sherlock sneered. He pulled a hand from his knee and rubbed his temple. "Yes, thank you."

Mrs Hudson turned and left the flat to return to her own. She grumbled on her way down the stairs, but Sherlock wasn't paying any attention.

What bloody day was it? Sherlock should have asked. It was too late now. An opportunity lost. He cursed himself. Perhaps he would text John.

_What day is it?_

_SH_

_-Message Sent-_

Sherlock pressed send and waited for a reply. He expected he would be waiting at least an hour, but he had no idea in retrospect. He slumped in his chair, head between his knees, for at least ten minutes before his phone buzzed in his hand. He startled awake, not realizing he had been asleep.

_-Message Received-_

_? sherlock, its friday_

_john_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of capitalization and proper punctuation. And then he let out a frustrated sigh when John didn't answer him in the way he wanted.

_Yes, but what DAY is it, John?  
>What is the exact date? How<br>many days until you return?  
>It's boring. I'm bored.<em>

_SH_

_-Message Sent-_

He waited for only two minutes and nineteen seconds before he received another text from John.

_-Message Received-_

_sherlock… its april 18. only  
>a few more days before i<br>come home, yeah :')  
><em>

_john_

_-Message Received-_

_dont worry ill be home soon  
>how many cases have u<br>sovled?_

_john_

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose before typing away at his phone furiously.

_John, really. Must you use_  
>"<em>u" to substitute "you"?<br>It's difficult to read. I hate  
>it. Stop.<em>

_SH_

_-Message Sent-_

_And I'm not keeping track  
>of how many cases I solve.<br>They don't matter. Trivial.  
>Petty. Boring. Hurry up and<br>come home already. _

_SH_

_-Message Sent-_

Sherlock placed his phone on the table that sat beside him and he let loose another sigh. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs and Sherlock's ears perked up.

"Sherlock? You've another case, love. Just what you needed, hmm?" Mrs Hudson started, letting herself into their flat. She had a bright smile on her lips. A teenaged girl stood behind the elderly woman awkwardly, hands wringing gently. The girl played with her middle finger on her left hand most predominantly. Right-handed. She wore a red beret along with a red pea coat. Underneath the coat, she was either wearing a dress or a skirt, knee in length. Dress. Her shoes were shiny, black Mary Janes. Slightly scuffed at the toes, shine dulled to the leather underneath. Middle class. Her long, brown hair ran down her back in a tight braid. She wore thin white gloves.

Mrs Hudson waved the girl in, and she took a seat. In _John's_ seat. Sherlock fumed, but it didn't show on his face. He feigned a quick smile before it vanished under his mask.

"Mister H-Holmes, I, um…I came here today to ask you to find something for m-me," the girl stammered out, obviously embarrassed. Embarrassed? Why? No, not embarrassed. Sheepish. Her eyes held a certain twinkle—star struck? He wasn't that big of a celebrity. Yes, he had been in the papers once or twice, but really. Sherlock scoffed.

"A ring," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

The girl's mouth parted slightly. She nodded, slowly at first, then more vigourously. "Y-yes, actually…" Under her breath, she muttered: "So it's true, he is psychic…"

Sherlock caught the remark and rolled his eyes, mouth open. "Not psychic, I merely used the power of deduction. Really, it wasn't that difficult. You are wringing your hands, mostly your middle finger of your left hand. You most likely played with a ring of some sort, and now you fiddle with an imaginary one. You're nervous—probably only fiddle with the ring when you are. Gold or silver?" He paused. "No, gold. Possibly a small stone encrusted in its centre. Am I correct?"

The girl nodded once again. "Y-yes, how…M-my name is Cecily Jones. My Grandmother gave me that ring before she p-passed a few weeks ago. We were very close…I believe someone has stolen it. It was quite valuable. W-will you help me, Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock let out a sigh. "I suppose. So," he started, steepling his fingers upon his lips. He dropped his legs from the chair, resting his elbows on his spread knees. "Where did you see the ring last?"

Cecily clasped her hands together in her lap. "My vanity. I have a small trinket b-box, and I always take the ring off after I get h-home from school. Yesterday, I went to go get the ring, but it was…gone…I don't know where it c-could have gone. I remember putting it in the box the day before…" The girl stared down at her hands awkwardly.

Sherlock sighed. "Do you have a sister? Older, perhaps? Not as close to your grandmother as you were?"

Cecily looked up, in mild shock. "Y-yes, Annie. She's three years older than I am…She was always…jealous…of my relationship with m-my grandmother. Why, d-do you think she stole my ring?"

Sherlock sat up straight, palms on his thighs. "Yes, I believe so." He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a second before muttering, "_Boring_."

Cecily didn't catch it. She stood up and held out her gloved hand. "Th-thank you, Mister Holmes. I a-appreciate it."

Sherlock snapped his head upright and took her fingertips briefly in a quick shake. He jumped out of his chair and went to the window. He brought a hand to his lips and stared.

The girl left quietly seconds later. Sherlock heard the door close behind her and he let out a sigh. He picked up his violin and began to pluck a few notes.

April 20th. Approximately 9:34 A.M., when Sherlock received the call from Lestrade.

"Sherlock, there's been a suspicious suicide," Lestrade said in his usual, controlled voice when dealing with this sort of thing.

"Suspicious? How?"

Lestrade audibly sighed. Sherlock suspected he was rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "The girl was apparently home alone, when she viciously pushed herself down a flight of stairs, then kicked herself down a second flight. I'm texting you the address."

Sherlock's lips sparked with a smile before he pressed _end_ on his phone. He waited only a minute for Lestrade to send the location of this suspicious suicide. He did like a mystery, after all.

Sherlock arrived at the three storey house in under twenty minutes. Sgt. Donovan scowled at the man as she raised the police tape to allow him passage. "Hey, Freak," she spat as he headed towards the house.

Sherlock dismissed her petty attempt to get a rise out of him. He entered the house and scanned the foyer for Lestrade. When he found the graying man, he nodded. He slipped on his leather gloves, as always. "So, where is the body?"

Lestrade lead Sherlock around the corner and revealed…the same young girl from two days prior. Cecily Jones. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he hovered over the crumpled body.

_Hair in the same braid, must be routine. Fingers of left hand curled around something, possibly—no, nothing. Was previously clutching something. It's been taken. Possibly the murderer has it with them. Mouth open, eyes wide with shock. Obvious the girl had not been expecting to be shoved. Head placed at odd angle, must have snapped on her way down. When? Before she fell down the second flight, or after? Shoe print on her chest. _Sherlock stood up straight and removed his gloves. He shoved them into his coat pocket as well as his hands.

"So?" Lestrade pried. "What do you think?"

Sherlock still regarded the body. "She was holding something before she died. Murderer must have taken it with them. Shoe print is petite, size six. Possibly a female. Victim has an older sister, Annie. Two days ago, she stole the victim's ring, given to her by her deceased grandmother. They must have fought over it. I'll be at Bart's, waiting for the body. If she was indeed pushed, there will be bruises on her chest, as well as the shoe print. I would track down the sister, if I were you."

And with that, Sherlock left the house and down the street to hail a cab.

Just as Sherlock had suspected, there were two blossoming bruises on Cecily's chest from where she had been shoved. A third bruise, the shape of a shoe print, sat in between the other two. Molly let out a sigh and Sherlock looked at her.

"It's sad, really, to see such a young, pretty girl in here," Molly let out.

Sherlock grunted in response. Molly looked up, eyes glossed over.

"They're all just bodies to you, aren't they? No, of course they are. Why would I think any—"

"I met her a few days ago," Sherlock interrupted. Molly's eyes went wide.

Molly turned her gaze back to the girl before her and pulled the white sheet up over her chest. "Oh." She didn't say anything else. Molly scraped under the girl's fingernails and continued with routine. Sherlock turned on his heel and headed towards the morgue's exit.

He paused just before pushing the door open. "If you find anything interesting, let me know."

Molly nodded, though he couldn't see her gesture. Sherlock left to pay another visit to Lestrade.

Sherlock walked through the front doors of the station and went to the front desk. "Is DI Lestrade in currently?" he asked.

The plump lady behind the counter looked up at him from over her glasses. On the desk was an open book of sudoku and she held a pencil in her hand. "Yes, Mister Holmes, he's interrogating a suspect right now, if I recall. Would you like me to page him?"

"No, I'll find him." And with that parting statement, he fled off down the hall.

Lestrade was sitting across from an older teenaged girl, _same shade of hair, same eye shape, definitely Annie Jones_, a stern look across his face. Sherlock stood behind the one-way window and watched. Sgt. Donovan stood beside him, regarding him with the Devil's eye.

"Miss Jones, we found your shoe print on your sister's chest. She was kicked down the second flight of stairs in your home."

The girl looked petrified. Guilty. The ghost of a smile licked at Sherlock's lips. He turned to Donovan and raised an eyebrow. "May I?"

"May you _what?_ Interrogate _our_ suspect? I don't think so—"

"As you might recall, I was the one who suggested you track her down," Sherlock interrupted.

Donovan stared, wide-eyed, and shut her mouth with a loud _snap_. "You don't even know _how_ to interrogate a suspect…" she grumbled, knocking on the window.

Lestrade looked up, his lips parted, and his tongue darted out across the lower pink. He nodded, and Sherlock let himself into the small, cold room.

The graying man stood up and stalked to the window-now-mirror. He folded his arms across his chest and watched Sherlock. He was definitely not allowed to let this happen, but it was happening. He let slip a sigh as his eyebrows crashed together.

"Annie Jones. You stole your sister's ring. Your grandmother's ring. Correct?"

The girl gaped at him.

"_Correct?_" Sherlock tried.

The girl then nodded. She didn't say anything.

"Cecily was your grandmother's favourite. She spoiled her. Took her on fancy trips to foreign places. She bought her nice dresses, fancy coats. She probably didn't even remember your birthday, while Cecily's was marked and circled on her calendar. The ring was probably her engagement ring. Possibly a widow, because why else would she will such a ring to her favourite—and seemingly only—grand-daughter? Yes, most definitely widowed. To replace her lost love, she coddled Cecily. Treated her like she would a spoiled fat cat. Didn't even give you a second glance. Like you weren't even there, yes? First born to the family, but not even on the list when it came to importance.

"You must have hated your sister for all the attention she received. _You_ should have been the one being coddled and spoiled. Not your younger sister. What a joke. Pathetic. It was _you_ who should have been most important. You were the first born, after all. So, you took your grandmother's ring from Cecily. The one thing connecting your sister to her late grandmother. Your late grandmother. You wanted a piece of her all to yourself, so you snuck into Cecily's room and stole the ring right from under her nose.

"But you couldn't have suspected that she would come to me, world's only consulting detective. I figured it out quite easily. You couldn't have suspected her finding out about what you had done. She finally got the ring back, but you wouldn't let her have it. So you shoved her down the first flight of stairs, and when she was gasping and wheezing out her last breath, you kicked her down the second flight for good measure. She held the ring in her hand, and you stole it back from her. What should have been rightfully yours, yes? And you left your sister for dead.

"Where is the ring now, Annie?" Sherlock had not broken eye contact with the girl since he had begun speaking. Annie was visibly twitching in her seat, eyes blinking rapidly. She kept glancing around, trying to find a way out. But there was no way out.

Annie bit her lip, but a sob escaped past her teeth anyway. She dug into her coat pocket and curled her fingers around something. She placed her fist on the table, the tears now streaming down her face freely. Annie held onto whatever it was for at least three minutes, still sobbing, until finally, her fingers uncurled and a small, golden ring dropped onto the metal table.

"I didn't mean to kill her, I just wanted to scare her. But then—after I had pushed her, and she was at the bottom, on the landing, she just—she…she kept trying to croak out my name, _please, I'm sorry, don't_, but I had no control over my body. I was outside of it, watching myself kick my only sister down the second flight. I heard a crack, but it was far off. Like someone had put cotton in my ears. I floated down the stairs…I floated down them, like a _ghost_—and then I was before her body, and…and I just took the ring. I took it, shoved it in my pocket, and ran out the door. I couldn't stop shaking. I just…I went to school, like nothing had happened. Oh_ God_, what have I done?" Annie began to wail loudly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

He had gotten out a confession, and Lestrade was content. He nodded to Sherlock before the man drifted from the room and left back for Baker Street.

John was enjoying his time with Sarah and his old friend. New Zealand was beautiful, in every possible way. Their trip was nearing an end, and secretly, John was glad. Though he was having a good time with Sarah, things were…amiss. They had little arguments here and there. It always led to an awkward apology.

"Are you even listening, John? I asked what you'd like for dinner," Sarah let out, rolling her eyes.

"Hm? Oh, sorry, Sarah, I—I guess I let my mind wander for a moment there." John cleared his throat. "It really doesn't matter to me, anything is fine." He went back to rereading Sherlock's texts.

_-Message Received-_

_I miss you_

_-Message Received-_

_When are you coming home?_

_-Message Received-_

_John, I'm serious. Answer me.  
>When are you coming home?<em>

_SH_

_-Message Received-_

_John, hurry up and get on  
>that plane and come home!<br>The flat is boring without  
>you. <em>

_SH_

_-Message Received-_

_John come home_

_-Message Received-_

_I bought milk. It's skim; I  
>know how much you don't<br>like it. Sorry._

_SH_

_-Message Received-_

_I ordered take away. Chinese.  
>Your favourite. Now, come home.<br>I'm hungry._

_SH_

John smiled as he scrolled through the messages, some signed, some not. Sarah placed a plate with a toasted sandwich before John on the table and frowned.

"What are you doing?" she asked, obviously implying that she wanted to be paid attention to.

John continued to scroll through the messages until he reached the last one he had replied to. He finally looked up, a confused expression washed over his face. "Is it any business of yours?" he snapped, involuntarily.

"It's Sherlock, isn't it? You're reading his _bloody _texts again, aren't you? God, can you give it a rest, John? This is _our_ time. Not your time with your boyfriend."

John stood up, hostility rising within him. "He's not my boyfriend, Sarah, he's my best friend. There's a difference."

"Oh, so I'm not your best friend, then? If there's such a difference?" she spat, arms folded across her chest. Eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

John threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. "Sarah, you_ are_ my best friend; the only difference is, is that we're shagging. I am definitely _not_ shagging Sherlock."

"Well, isn't that wonderful! You have such a skill in the art of lying, John. I see the way you react when you get a text from him. You look at the goddamn phone like it's the love of your life. You don't even smile like that to _me!_" she screeched, leaning slightly forward.

John let loose a chuckle, void of any humour. He threw his head back as he laughed, eyes closed. He let his gaze return to Sarah's face and his eyebrows scrunched together. "God, Sarah, must everything be about you? I'm apart of this relationship, too, you know!"

"Yes, and so is Sherlock bloody Holmes. It's either me, or him, John."

John's lips parted and he let out a tiny gasp, inaudible. "_What?_ You're really giving me an ultimatum, here? Sarah…" He brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed it gently as he tried to think of the answer. Through his anger, he still found himself smiling. "This is utterly ridiculous, and you know it. You're just jealous because I have a friend, someone else to split my attention with."

"_No_, John, I'm jealous because you _love_ him! You love him more than you love me, and—"

"Didn't I _just_ tell you that I wasn't in fact gay? Especially not for Sherlock. Or were you not listening, like always?" John interjected, rage seething through his teeth.

Sarah's jaw fell and her eyes went wide. She dropped her hands to her side and picked up John's plate, still full of the sandwich. "I don't care if there's only two days left before we leave. I'm buying another ticket and I'm leaving, John. In every sense of the word. Don't call me, don't text me, don't even look at me. The only communication we'll have is at work, and I'm beginning to wonder if I should even let you keep the job. I hope you're happy with your _friend_, John. I really do." Sarah tossed the sandwich into the bin and dropped the plate loudly in the sink. She let the tap run for a few seconds before she turned it off and stormed off towards their shared bedroom. But as she passed John, he shot out his left hand and yanked on her arm.

John pulled her in close and slammed his lips to hers. Sarah's eyes went wide, but eventually closed tightly. She entwined her fingers in John's short hair and leaned into the kiss. Their bodies pressed together, both knowing this was the last kiss they would ever share.

John finally tore away, panting heavily. He stared into Sarah's eyes before she turned away and broke the connection. John sighed, plopping down into the kitchen table's chair. He set his elbow on the table and placed his hand on his cheek. John rubbed at his eye and then let his hand drop, palm down, onto the wood.

_Damn her, damn Sherlock, _John thought.

John lie in bed, eyes open. He was on his right side, staring out the window with the broken lock and the too-thin sheer curtains. Wind whistled through the open crack of the window.

John shuddered and rolled onto his other side, the blanket rising with him. He cursed under his breath, fumbling to pull it down over his bare back. He shifted on top of the blanket, completely frustrated now. Sarah's words echoed in his head, the scene replaying over and over and over and—

John wasn't in _love_ with Sherlock, was he? He was enamoured, fascinated, dedicated, loyal…slightly obsessed. With everything the mad man did. John's brain avoided all and every mention of the thought—the feeling—of love for his best friend. In the few short months they had been living together, solving wonderful crimes together, almost _dying_ together…John had become accustomed to Sherlock's ways. He couldn't predict them, no, but he was completely used to them. Fine with them. The late nights (or early mornings) waking up to Sherlock violently stringing up notes on his violin; the acidic smells that sometimes radiated from their small kitchen, a terrible byproduct of the things Sherlock kept in the appliances; the sickening amount of _running_; the _Obviously, John_'s; the…everything. John loved it all. Every last second. At the pool…John had assumed that would be the last time he would ever see his friend. Ever see his friend's angular face, his high cheek bones, his precise jaw line, his eerily gray-blue eyes, his elegant fingers attached to equally elegant hands—John felt as though he might throw up.

He sat up in his bed, the wind whistling louder now.

* * *

><p>John brought a hand to his face and rubbed the—the what? The doubt? The confusion?—from his eyes and let his legs fall freely over the side of the all-too-soft mattress. His feet hit the cold, hardwood flooring and a shiver raced through him. He held out his left hand and wasn't surprised in the least to notice it silently quivering in the moonlight. He held it up higher, as if inspecting some important piece of evidence. Trying to deduce something from it. Anything. But nothing came to mind.<p>

The man managed to bring himself to the bathroom. John laid his palms, face down, on the rim of the sink and hunched his back. He finally managed to look up into the mirror, but the face he saw was not truly his own.

He looked haggard, worn down. _Pathetic_. Like he hadn't slept nor eaten in a week. He felt the sudden urge to dig his fingers into his eye sockets and yank until he tore himself from his skin. The fight with Sarah had been rightly justified—it was true, what she accused. John was, in some way or another, in love with Sherlock Holmes.

"_Fuck!_"

John slammed his hand against the sink and stared down at the drain again. He wanted so badly to pull himself from the person he had become over the past few months. It didn't feel like him. Not really. But then, what _did_ feel like 'him'? Surely, he didn't feel truly himself when he had just come home from Afghanistan. He was empty, dead, a black void—he sat alone in his dingy flat watching crap telly and eating buttered toast and cereal. When he had come across Mike Stamford, by chance, _by chance!_, he was led to the most brilliant man he had ever come across. Mike Stamford must have been some sort of sign, some gift from God, _no, that's not quite right, there is no god, _because ever since that day at the hospital, he had finally felt alive again.

John Watson, so sure of his feelings and his thoughts, was utterly lost.

The thought of him pressed up against Sherlock, their lips crashing together like an angry wave licking at the sand, hands roaming free—_finally… _No, no. Nononono. John smacked the side of his head twice, hard, then raked his fingertips across the skin of his face. He stared at his monochromed reflection, the moonlight cascading across the fine lines of his face. The side of his face where he was dragging his fingers was pulled and distorted into something grotesque. He let his hand drop back to the sink, where he resumed his grip on the sink's rim. John stared long and hard at his reflection, thinking of nothing and everything all at once.

John considered texting Sherlock. He would probably be awake, the man never slept, but John thought better of it. He would say something stupid if he got his phone now. He then considered calling Sherlock—but that was an even worse idea.

The man simply stood there, in the dark, staring at the shadow before him.

y_ou love him more than you love me and_

John shut his eyes tight, trying to drown out the voice of his now ex-girlfriend.

_more than you love me. You love him more than you love me and more than you love me you love him you love him _

"God, _shut up!_" he bellowed, startling himself. John stared at himself, looking even worse than he had just moments ago (if it was even possible, _it was_). He raised one hand, his left, and shifted his gaze to that. He tried to find the lines on his palm _palmar flexion creases_ and when he couldn't, he curled his fingers into a fist. For a split second, he considered bringing that fist quickly upon the glass. _Would only end up bleeding, need stitches, how to explain the broken mirror? Seven years of bad luck—don't need any more, seven years seven years how long left do I have to live? With Sherlock, really, be reasonable, John, how long? Three years, four? Seven years_ John bolted his eyes shut again, fist tightening. Knuckles white against the taut pull of skin over bone.

John found himself on the balcony of the hotel room, phone in hand. He had dialled 221b Baker Street's number and was testing himself. How long could he go, how long could he resist the temptation to hear Sherlock's voice? It had been nearly three weeks, but could he go on for longer? He finally pressed _call _and brought the phone to his ear. He waited for the rings.

One.

What would he even say? Nothing. There wasn't anything to say. Nothing to tell, either. Would Sherlock know somehow? What the fight had been about? Surely, Sherlock didn't feel the same way—he had admitted that first night that he was 'married to his work'. But could John be that exception?

Two.

God, what was he even doing? Calling Sherlock in the middle of the night. But, no, it wouldn't be the middle of the night. It would be…what time was it? John didn't even know. It would be sometime in the afternoon.

Three.

John pulled the phone away from his ear slightly, considering pressing _end_. But then he pressed it back to his ear and waited. His breathing was quick and thin, his pulse racing through his veins.

Four—

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

John assumed he must have stood there in the cold air for what seemed like an hour. His breathing was rapidly increasing, if even possible, and he began to feel lightheaded.

"Is anyone there? I can hear you breathing."

John closed his eyes to the world and his grip on the phone tightened.

"Who is this? Answer me!"

John's eyes opened in a flash and he fumbled with the phone to end the call. He had heard a strangled sound, and could only assume it had come from himself.

John leaped back into the hotel's main room and tossed his phone—no, threw it, as if disposing of something on fire—onto the armchair closest to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you for all the reviews and the story favourites/alerts! I really, really appreciate it a whole ton! This chapter is sort of a filler, instead of a time skip. I have this silly headcanon, where John types really horribly and Sherlock can't stand it, but puts up with it anyway. Or should I say "n e way" heh~ UM. Yes, so, this chapter is mostly just a huuuuge Skype chat. I would also like to thank my betas (and complete, utterly adorbs BFFs): Meghan and Alyson! And also my two other betas, normalcyisdead at tumblr, and Thelexpiea at fanfiction. (I haven't gotten their beta edits yet, but whenever I do I will edit this chapter~~) Uh, yes, so, I really hope you enjoy this chapter! I friggin' enjoyed writing it! *floats away~*

(P.S. Oh aaaaand the third chapter will PROBABLY most likely possibly I-am-not-really-sure-yet be up by Sunday, EST (Ontario, Canada~) 9:00PM? I have no school on Friday (fyeah!), so I believe I will be typing up a shit load. YEP okay, well, anyway! THANKS for reading bruhs! xx)

(P.P.S. If the third chapter isn't up by Sunday, it will really be up by Monday or Tuesday. I really can't even give a precise date because I write REALLY slowly, and also, it depends on my betas, if they send me back the edited chapter. SORRY /floats away into the moonlight)

(P.P.P.S. okay seriously i am going to shit a brick FANFICTION IS REALLY STARTING TO GRIND MY GEARS? First, it wouldn't let me "tab" the time stamps of the conversation so they would be after the IM, so I had to manually re-arrange the time stamps to BEFORE the IM... and then when I go to view the chapter, HALF OF IT IS IN ITALICS? No, ALL of it... is.. in.. italics... Can I just stab my own eye out please :3c THANKS. Sorry, I had to rant. I am seriously raging on the inside right now and I can't stop saying "MOTHER FUCKER" really loud under.. my.. breath? SO IT ISN'T /REALLY/ that loud... but it's loud enough for the fanfiction gods to hear it! I'M SORRY THIS CHAPTER IS SO FRACKED UP. I REALLY AM.)

(PPPPPPPPPPPPPS okay now it is apparently fixed. I am terribly, horribly sorry, and I hope that this REALLY DOESN'T SCREW UP AGAIN. Jesus CHRIST! And sorry for the ~!*~*vulgarity~*!~ but I seriously have no other alternative in dealing with my PENT UP MARTIN FREEMAN RAGE (I actually hate that fandom joke, but I'm using it ~~~IRONICALLY) yep.)

* * *

><p>His suitcase packed and ready to go, John made sure he hadn't left anything behind. He tried to make the bed, but it didn't look even half as nice as it did when the maid did it. John slipped into his coat and checked to see if his passport and flight ticket were still in his inside breast pocket. They were. He exited the hotel room and let the door lock behind him. It made a satisfying chirp.<p>

John boarded the plane and took his seat. He had brought his laptop with him (after an extra thirty minutes at security) and planned on using it. Before boarding the plane, John had asked the woman at the boarding pass desk if there was internet on the flight, and she had informed him that there was. John flashed her a smile.

Opening his laptop, he plugged it into the socket on the seat in front of him and waited for his laptop to boot up. When it did, he signed into Skype and then pulled out his cellphone. Before a stewardess could tell him to put it away, he texted Sherlock.

_sherlock get on skype. it's_  
><em>going to be a long flight…<em>

_john_

_-Message Sent-_

John waited a minute or two before bringing his finger onto the power button. Just then, he received a text from Sherlock.

_-Message Received-_

_You seriously expect me_  
><em>to stay on Skype with you<em>  
><em>the entire flight? I have<em>  
><em>things to do, John. But,<em>  
><em>as you wish, I will sign<em>  
><em>on. Are you sure you're<em>  
><em>able to use the internet<em>  
><em>on the flight?<em>

_SH_

John smiled as he shut off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. He waited for Sherlock to sign onto Skype. It would be at least another twenty minutes, give or take, before they took off. The quiet _woosh_ of someone signing on widened John's eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes is online," a computerized man's voice informed.

John double-clicked on his friend's contact and a conversation popped up.

(9:03 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>John?<p>

(9:03 AM) john w  
>yeah i'm not moving yet no ones told me off for having the laptop open<p>

(9:03 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Yes, well. Let's hope they aren't too angry with you when they find out.<p>

(9:04 AM) john w  
>doubt it<br>(9:04 AM) and anyway its not like i'll have the laptop open when we take off

(9:04 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>How was your vacation?<p>

(9:04 AM) john w  
>bad or good first<p>

(9:05 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>I don't understand.<p>

(9:05 AM) john w  
>do u want to hear about the bad or the good about the vacation<br>(9:05 AM) because theres an equal amount of both  
>(9:05 AM) actually no there is more bad but<p>

(9:05 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>But?<br>(9:05 AM) Tell me the bad first.

(9:05 AM) john w  
>kk<br>(9:05 AM) well sarah left me so now you have me all to urself  
>(9:07 AM) that wasn't supposed 2 sound sexual btw<p>

(9:07 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>What is "btw"? You know I don't care for acronyms, John.<p>

(9:07 AM john w  
>by the way<p>

(9:07 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>By the way what?<p>

(9:07 AM) john w  
>no thatswhat it means btw is by the way<p>

(9:08 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Oh. You could have clarified.<p>

(9:10 AM) john w  
>have 2 go now were taking off apparently dont text me my phone is off<br>kk? i'll come back on skype as soon as i can get on bye talk to u soon

(9:10 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Goodbye, John.<p>

John closed his laptop and replaced it in its bag, then shoved the bag under his seat. He put the tray up and locked it, fastening his seatbelt.

It took exactly twenty one minutes for the plane to take off. John couldn't stop pumping his leg up and down, the movement solely in his ankle. When the seatbelt signs flicked off, he grabbed his laptop bag and yanked the thing from it. He propped it open and waited for the internet to connect again.

The familiar sound of Skype signing him in made a smile sprout on his cheeks. Sherlock was still logged on. _Good_.

(9:34 AM) john w  
>back<br>(9:34 AM) did u miss me?  
>(9:34 AM) that wasn't supposed 2 sound sexual either gdi<p>

(9:34 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>…John, what does "gdi" stand for?<p>

(9:35 AM) john w  
>it means god dman it<br>(9:35 AM) damn*

(9:37 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>You know, I'm not going to Skype with you all night. I have things to do.<p>

(9:37 AM) john w  
>like wat?<p>

(9:37 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Definitely not correct your excruciatingly painful lack of spelling and<br>grammar/punctuation. John, must you really act so lazy?

(9:38 AM) john w  
>hey! i buy the milk! if any 1 is lazy here its YOU!<p>

(9:38 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>You can't see me, but I'm placing a hand to my forehead—in shame.<br>Utter shame, John. Really. If you learned how to type like a normal,  
>proper human being, then it would be a lot more entertaining to talk to you.<br>But since you refrain from typing decently, I must threaten to sign out. Do  
>you want that, John? Do you want me to sign out?<p>

(9:38 AM) john w  
>No! There are you happy now? Im using proper capitalzation now<br>(9:38 AM) capitilazation*  
>(9:38 AM) …<br>(9:39 AM) capitalization*****

(9:42 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Congratulations, John. Next time, use a dictionary. Or spell check. Isn't it<br>built right into your laptop? Or use the dictionary application. I've left it in  
>the dock, because I know how much you need it.<p>

(9:43 AM) john w  
>gdi sherlock why do you mock me for everything i do? Its okay 2 be wrong<br>sometimes, you know  
>(9:43 AM) I am not a machin like you<br>(9:43 AM) machine*

(9:43 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>No, you're not. I never expected you to be, John. And that's perfectly fine<br>with me.

(9:49 AM) john w  
>what's that supposed to Mean?<p>

(9:51 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Nothing. Never mind. What time is it over there?<p>

(9:51 AM) john w  
>it's almost 10 am why?<p>

(9:51 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>It's almost 9PM in London.<br>(10:03 AM) John? Are you still there?

(10:07 AM) john w  
>oh sry trolley came for bfast<br>(10:07 AM) yum eggs and toast with ham  
>(10:07 AM) and MILK<br>(10:07 AM) and theres free refills  
>(10:08 AM) FREE<br>(10:08 AM) of milk!  
>(10:08 AM) all the fucking milk i want<br>(10:08 AM) allllll the milllkkkkkk did u buy milk while i was away sherlock?  
>(10:08 AM) mmmmm eggs and ham and toast and MILK!<p>

(10:09 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>…John, really? Could you at least TRY to type like a decent human being?<br>It's really quite annoying. And, yes, I bought milk. As I said in a text some  
>time ago, I bought skim milk. I know you hate it. So I bought it anyway.<br>But I suppose it was redundant, since you wouldn't be here to yell at me  
>for it. Which is a shame, really. I rather like when you yell at me.<p>

(10:13 AM) john w  
>im trying 2 understand or or make sense of what you mean by that…..<br>i really am but i don't have a bloody clue  
>(10:13 AM) you LIKE when i yell at u? what is that even supposed to mean<p>

(10:16 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Never mind. How is your breakfast? Or should I say "bfast".<p>

(10:16 AM) john w  
>better then the 'food' at home thats for damn sure…did u even eat any<br>thing while i was in nz? u better ahve or else i'm going to force you to  
>eat everything when i get back in london<br>(10:19 AM) did you?  
>(10:23 AM) sherlock? r u there?<br>(10:24 AM) sherlock… are you ignoring me now? what did i do?  
>(10:30 AM) sherlock? ….<br>(10:37 AM) well that breakfast was rly good. the eggs were a bit microwave-y  
>(10:37 AM) but i guess that doesnt really matter huh at least it was god<br>(10:37 AM) good**  
>(10:42 AM) sherlock….are you there? did u fall asleep or smth?<br>(10:49 AM) gdi sherlock fine im going offline then k if u wont answer me!

john w is offline (10:51 AM)  
>john w is online (10:56 AM)<p>

(10:57 AM) hello? :'P  
>(11:03 AM)please sherlock are you there? hello?<p>

(11:21 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>John? I was busy momentarily. I'm sorry.<br>(11:23 AM) John, are you still there?  
>(11:26 AM) John?<br>(11:31 AM) Guess we missed each other, then.

(11:32 AM) john w  
>no im here sorry trolley came back asking if i wanted more milk<br>(11:32 AM) i said of course why wouldnt i want more MILK…  
>(11:32 AM) is there milk in the fridge rn?<p>

(11:33 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>No, there isn't. Would you like it if I bought you milk? Normal, non-skim<br>milk, of course. A welcome home present.

(11:33 AM) john w  
>0.0<br>(11:34 AM) OMG! u really will buy me milk?  
>(11:34 AM) really? i would be really happy if u did sherlock<br>(11:36 AM) please please dont buy skim tho okay? not even as a joke…

(11:37 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>I will buy you non-skim milk, I swear. Just for you. I promise. But don't<br>get any ideas—I'm not going to keep buying you milk. Or any other thing,  
>actually. Unless it's for an experiment.<p>

(11:38 AM) john w  
>::sigh:: well at least u are buying me milk thats good enough for me…<br>you never do the shopping anyway so it doesnt really matter i guess  
>(11:38 AM) at least u are buying me milk<br>(11:39 AM) how many bags are u going 2 buy? or should i only expect one…

(11:39 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>I'll get as many as I feel like buying. Maybe one, maybe two, maybe five…<br>(11:40 AM) Who knows?

(11:40 AM) john w  
>kk<p>

Sherlock Holmes is idle (11:44 AM)

(11:44 AM) john w  
>sherlock? were r u?<br>(11:49 AM) sherlock? answer me  
>(11:52 AM) sherlock not again ::sigh::<p>

Sherlock Holmes is online (11:56 AM)

(11:56 AM) john w  
>finally where did u go? wats more important then me?<p>

(11:57 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Sorry again, John. Busy.<p>

(11:57 AM)john w  
>with WHAT? what can b more important then me? *.*<p>

(11:59 AM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Plenty of things. When are you coming home? How much longer? I'm<br>bored, John.

(12:03 PM) john w  
>explain ""plenty of things"" and i've only been on the plane three hours<br>sherlock it is a 21 hour flight and that doesnt include the stops i have to  
>make in between and that will take about 3 hours to transfer gdi gdi gdi<br>(12:04 PM) i hate airports! i hate flying and i hate the tiny seats  
>(12:04 PM) i also hate the take off and landing and the turbulence<br>(12:04 PM) i just hate flying  
>(12:07 PM) sherlock?<br>(12:14 PM) tell me a story

(12:15 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Like what, John?<p>

(12:15 PM) john w  
>from b4 i knew u<p>

(12:18 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Boring.<p>

(12:21 PM) john w  
>….? what do u mean ""boring"" u must have lots of interesting<br>stories to tell  
>(12:22 PM) come on please just tell me 1?<p>

(12:24 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>No. As I said, boring.<br>(12:27 PM) John?  
>(12:32 PM) John, are you still there?<p>

john w is offline (12:35 PM)

The seatbelt sign came on and John rolled his eyes. "For God's sake," he uttered, putting away his laptop. Turbulence shook the plane almost violently, causing the captain to come onto the intercom and explain.

"We've just entered a storm cluster, but we'll be out of it in a moment. Please fasten your seatbelts, and do not get up. I'm terribly sorry, everyone."

John leaned over the empty seat between him and the wall and pulled open the window shade. Outside was black, and John could see rain streak across the glass. He suddenly felt very nauseous. He pulled down the shade and sat straight in his chair, looking ahead.

It was half an hour, give or take a few minutes, before the seatbelt sign flicked off. The captain came on the intercom again and informed everyone what they already knew. John let out a sigh and pulled out his laptop again.

He signed into Skype and closed his eyes in a silent prayer that Sherlock was still online.

(1:03 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>You're back. Where did you go?<p>

(1:03 PM) john w  
>turbulence…. had to put the laptop away sorry =.=<p>

(1:04 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>What is that thing, John? =.= What does it mean? Is it some sort of<br>acronym, or something?

(1:05 PM) john w  
>no its a face sherlock the = is the eye and the . is.. the mouth i think i dont<br>know actually harry uses it sometimes  
>(1:05 PM) see get it =.= its a face ok<p>

(1:07 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Interesting. I don't know what expression it is supposed to be … expressing.<br>Do you know, John?

(1:07 PM) john w  
>um i thick its just a frustrated smilie like EURGH! IM SO FRUSTRADED<br>(1:07 PM) frustrated***  
>(1:07 PM) like it has the eyes closed and u can imagine it holding its forehead<br>(1:07 PM) can u see it?

(1:10 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Yes, I can see it now. It accurately describes my expression right now.<br>(1:10 PM) Or should I say "rn".

(1:10 PM) john w  
>don't make fun of me sherlock or ill tell mycroft<p>

(1:11 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Oh, I'm soo scared, John. What is he going to do, tell Mummy? And in<br>turn, what will SHE do? Send me to my room? Forbid me from seeing  
>my friends? Won't let me watch the telly?<p>

(1:14 PM) john w  
>ur a right bastard u know that sherlock? keep ur mockery 2 urself<p>

(1:14 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>If only you didn't provide me with reasons to mock you in the first place,<br>John. Really, I can't go on talking to you if you keep using "u" as "you".  
>It's annoying and debilitating to read. It's like reading a child type. You're<br>not a child, are you John? Have you suddenly transformed into a nine  
>year old? Not that that would surprise me in any way, however.<p>

(1:19 PM) john w  
>i'm not talking to you anymroe<br>(1:19 PM) anymore*

(1:20 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Oh, come now, John. Don't be such a baby.<p>

(1:20 PM) john w  
>I'M NOT A BABY! I'M NOT A BLOODY CHILD EITHER!<br>(1:20 PM) STOP TREATING ME LIKE ONE!

(1:24 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>All right. No need to caps lock.<p>

(1:24 PM) john w  
>i'm going to go 2 sleep<br>(1:24 PM) i will talk to u in nine hours  
>(1:25 PM) gnight ttys<p>

(1:26 PM) Sherlock Holmes  
>Sleep well, John. I'll be here when you wake up.<p>

john w is offline (1:28 PM)

(1:40 PM — pending) Sherlock Holmes  
>It's already boring without you.<br>(2:13 PM — pending) John, you don't need to sleep. Wake up.  
>(2:51 PM — pending) Please, wake up. I don't want to go to sleep.<br>(3:34 PM — pending) Goodnight, John.

John fell asleep quickly and silently after he had closed his laptop and put it away. He dreamed of 221b Baker Street.

It was dark in the flat, and he was looking for something—but he couldn't place what. He rushed around the flat in a mad frenzy, throwing papers and things around the main room. He felt someone watching him from behind, and when he spun around to see who it was, nobody was there. He heard a distinct laugh, and chills raced through his blood. John cried out for Sherlock, but there was no reply. He ran through the kitchen and into the back hallway to see if Sherlock was in his bedroom, but he wasn't. John called out for him several more times, but no answer. John eventually went into his bedroom and locked the door, the ghost of the same laugh hanging in the air.

John woke up in a cold sweat many hours later. It was time to switch flights, which he really didn't want to do, but he had to if he wanted to get home.

It took about three hours, as he had suspected, to board the new flight. He had completely forgot about Skype, and only four hours into the second flight did he remember. John opened his laptop and turned it on, signing into Skype. But Sherlock wasn't online. A slight pain fogged his brain as he signed out and surfed the web for a bit. He searched up random questions into Google, played online poker for about twenty minutes before getting bored, and then ended up playing Solitaire.

He eventually fell back asleep, but didn't dream of anything this time. John awoke to the sound of the intercom hissing before the captain cleared his throat.

"Er, captain speaking, here! We're about to land in London, folks, so fasten your seatbelts and hold on just a bit longer. I know you've had a long flight, so I congratulate you for putting up with it. Yes, well, captain out!" The intercom hissed again as the captain shut it off.

John stretched and let out a silent yawn before fastening his seatbelt once more. He really needed to go for a run or something when he got back onto the ground. What time was it, even? He had no idea. His watch said 9A.M. He had been flying for exactly a day now. Well, not entirely a day, there had been the three hours he had to wait around for the connecting flight, but _technically_ it had been exactly a day. It was dark out at the moment, so John could only assume that it was either past 7P.M. or before 6A.M. But it really didn't matter to him—he was going straight to bed once he got in the door to the flat.


	3. Chapter 3

Hiiiiii AHJFGdhsjhfjadsfdglh;fsahfdj sorry this chapter took me SO LONG… It was actually finished a week ago, but I kept forgetting to.. get.. around to posting it. So I never ended up submitting it to the fix D; I'm really sorry! I hope that this chapter is at least decent! And I will be writing the fourth chapter this weekend (I have a long weekend :D) so I hope to have it done by Monday night, edited by Tuesday night, and submitted by Wednesday! It really depends on my two betas and if they are online… UM yeah.

UH warnings forrr curse words. Just a few, though. And the next chapter will be oh so fun to write~ I've never written a torture scene (plural) before.

* * *

><p>John slid into a cab, one of the ones that waited by the airport's exit, and gave the cabbie an address. He was bloody exhausted from his flight, and all he wanted to do was collapse onto his bed with his too-thin sheets (that were far too scratchy) and sleep for a week. The man pulled out his phone and pressed the little icon for <em>Messages.<em>

_coming home now wat time  
>is it bloody hell<em>

_john_

_-Message Sent-_

Sherlock was dreaming of bees. He was nine again, climbing a tree behind the Holmes' Manor. An annoying Mycroft was yelling at him to come down—_you're going to fall and break your neck!—_but Sherlock wasn't listening. He wanted to climb to the top, then look over the landscaped acres and see how much of it he could view from his current height (barely 8 metres off the ground).

That's when he heard the faint buzzing.

Sherlock hadn't considered the noise at first, blocked it out right away. And then he saw a black-and-yellow body whiz by him, and suddenly the buzzing clouded his hearing of his left ear. He swatted whatever it was away from his ear, and his hand collided with something tiny, perhaps the size of a pebble.

The buzzing suddenly grew frantic around his head, and Sherlock wouldn't have it. He tried to catalogue everything he could see before swatting away at his ear again.

Something pinched him and he gave a start. Sherlock rubbed at the spot where he had been pinched, and already forming beneath his hand was a large, red welt. His eyes grew wide as he looked around, trying to source the ever-growing buzzing sound. A large bees's nest sat just a branch away, black-and-yellow bodies flitting about angrily. Sherlock had a mere ten seconds (if that) before the angry swarm began to advance. Sherlock swatted around his face, praying he wouldn't get stung further.

But he did, oh, he did.

Sherlock began to frantically climb down the tree, but lost his footing and fell, one metre, two, three, the swarm still nipping at his bare arms and legs and neck and face. Everything rushed by him in an instant, and then—nothing. His mind went blank. Completely, utterly _blank_. He felt oddly hot as he lay there, staring up at the crystalline blue sky with its puffy marshmallow clouds through the Elm tree branches. The bees, pleased with their bidding, returned back to their nest.

Sherlock could hear someone yelling, _Sherlock! Sherlock, oh, God, Sherlock, look at me! Look at me!_ but all he could see was the brilliant colours above him. He didn't notice, or, didn't _care_ to notice, the looming form over him. But just as it came, it vanished.

A lazy smile etched its way onto Sherlock's young, welted face. He still felt hot, and was growing hotter still. It was then when his breathing started to hitch. He tried to inhale deeply, but nothing good came of it. His eyes must have closed, everything had gone black. No, not quite black, he could see in the darkness something moving. He heard his name being called again, and then he felt a jolt of pain in his left thigh.

Sherlock sat up quickly, completely ripped from his haze. He glanced around feverishly, his breathing almost unbearably bad. The boy heaved in deep breaths, swallowing them whole, as if he would never get another again. One after the other, he swallowed. Full, deep breaths, but it still wasn't enough.

"Mummy," he croaked out, the last bit of oxygen in his lungs escaping with his final word.

Everything went black again, but this time nothing moved in the darkness.

Sherlock awoke with a start when he heard the familiar buzz. He instinctively covered his face with his hands, curling up into a tight ball. He listened carefully for that horrible noise, but heard nothing. Only the ticking of a clock nearby and the faint crackle of a dying fire. It was pitch black, and it took some time before Sherlock's eyes adjusted to the dark. Another buzz caused him to finally dawned on the man that the buzz was coming from his mobile. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pawed at the side table beside his chair. Phone in hand, he brought it close to his face and it flicked on with another buzz.

A text from John. A sigh lilted out past Sherlock's lips as his body relaxed. He had no idea what time it was, and the last time he had checked was before he had collapsed into his chair—approximately 9P.M.

_I'm not too sure, John.  
>Apologies. I was asleep.<br>How long will it take you  
>to get to Baker Street?<em>

_SH_

_-Message Sent-_

He waited a moment before standing up from the chair. He stretched back languidly, fluent as a cat. Three audible cracks, all in different locations along his spinal column. A smile graced his lips.

_-Message Received-_

_dunno maybe 30 mins?  
>y? u ok? have a nice<br>sleep, sherlock? _

_john_

Sherlock's smile grew at his friend's unneeded concern. He informed John that he was fine and then placed his phone on the side table. Sherlock stalked towards a nearby lamp and flicked it on. The sudden brightness dazzled him for a moment. Sherlock crouched on his chair, arms wrapped around his knees, in wait for John to come home. Possibly, if he felt up to it, he would give an awkward hug. Or receive an awkward hug. Either way, the possibility of an awkward hug was there. A 78% chance, actually.

* * *

><p>John got out of the cab and waited for the driver to pop the boot of the car. When he did, John yanked out his ridiculously large suitcase and set it on the ground. A pain shot through his left shoulder, but he ignored it. He paid the cabbie and walked towards 221b Baker Street's front door.<p>

John hesitated before inserting his key and turning it in the lock. He didn't know what to expect, really. A smile? A smile with actual _teeth_? Instead of that half-arsed smile Sherlock always bloody gave. The one that always managed to confuse him—was this a "I'm mildly pleased" or a "yes, good, congratulations on your ability to keep functioning" kind of smile?—and that always managed to _annoy_ him. John sighed and inserted the key anyway. He lugged his suitcase up the flight of stairs and then, once again, hesitated in front of their flat's front door.

John decided to knock before entering. _Short knock, short knock, a second's pause, short knock but hold knuckles to wood_. His hand dropped to the door handle. A sigh escaped him, one he hadn't realized he had been holding, and pushed open the door.

Sherlock was already standing in front of the door like some sort of expectant puppy. John had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

An awkward silence floated down around them, their breathing dead silent and controlled. Sherlock's eyes darted up and down John's person, finally landing on his tired face.

"Er, hello," John said in a voice much too quiet, but still not quiet enough for the moment.

John didn't process the following action quite quick enough. Sherlock had thrown his arms around his back and held him in a tight embrace. John's body stilled, his breath hitched deep in his throat. When he finally released it, it blew the hair around Sherlock's ear away for a moment. He felt Sherlock shiver, but was sure it had been his imagination. John awkwardly raised a hand and held it against Sherlock's back. Not knowing what else to do, he patted it twice.

Sherlock didn't move from the embrace for at least twenty seconds, his breath hot in John's ear.

"Uh…Sherlock…" John whispered, dropping his hand awkwardly to his side.

Sherlock ripped away from John, eyes ablaze. "Sorry, um, sorry," Sherlock let slip quickly. He took three large steps back, giving space between their two bodies.

John gave a shrug with his right shoulder and wheeled his suitcase into their flat. He set it beside his chair and turned towards the front door.

"I'll unpack tomorrow morning, Sherlock. I'm about to drop dead. See you tomorrow, yeah?" John said, slightly louder than before.

Sherlock nodded thrice before heading off towards the hallway beyond the kitchen.

John slowly made his way up the second flight of stairs, knees aching and thighs sore. When he finally reached the top step, he nearly tripped and landed on his face. His hand shot out and grabbed the banister before he fell. He brought his other hand to his forehead and walked ever so slowly to his bedroom.

"Bloody hell," he mumbled under his breath.

John collapsed onto his bed, just like he imagined he would, and fell into a deep sleep almost the second his head hit the pillow.

* * *

><p>Sun streamed in through John's bedroom window, the sheer fabric of the curtains not doing anything to protect his bloodshot eyes from the blinding rays. He groaned and rolled onto his front, throwing his arms up over his head. He breathed into the pillow for a minute or two before he couldn't take it anymore. He tilted his head to the side and inhaled sharply through his mouth. He wasn't needed at the surgery today—he had it booked off just for this reason. John could just stay in bed all day, maybe tape a jumper to the window to block out the sun. Or he supposed he could go down and watch the telly for a bit. Maybe take a nap in his chair. No…his bed sounded wonderful, and it felt perfect to finally be sleeping on his own mattress again. The hotel's mattress had been far too hard, as though it was overstuffed with kittens. He placed a hand on his face and slowly let it pull down until his fingertips were on his lower lip. John pushed up from the bed and looked around in a daze. His eyes were half-closed, lips parted, and body sore from head to toe.<p>

There was a quick knock to his door, and then it opened to reveal Sherlock with a—a tray. A tall glass of milk was the first thing John noticed. Then he saw the slices of toast with egg and ham. A small tangerine sat beside the plate. A smile spread across John's face as he turned to sit up against his headboard.

"Thought you deserved a nice, proper breakfast. No idea what you ate over there in New Zealand, but I hope this is just as good. And if you check in the fridge—you'll find three bags of non-skim milk, two-percent. Your favourite." Sherlock waited until John was settled in an upright position before handing him the tray.

"I—I really don't know what to say, er, thank you, I s'pose. This is very unexpected, coming from you," John said, ending it with a small chuckle.

Sherlock's eyes lit up—the same kind of look he got when there had been a horrible, mysterious crime—and he smiled sincerely. "You're welcome, John. I unpacked your suitcase as you slept. I hope you don't mind."

John looked up from the tray of food before him and locked his gaze with Sherlock. "Oh, uh, you, you didn't have to do that. But thanks. Would you like a slice of tangerine?" John had begun to peel the tangerine, fingers working fast to reveal the juicy flesh beneath the skin.

Sherlock contemplated the offer, John could see it in his face, before giving a slight nod. John held out two slices of the tangerine between his thumb and two fingers. Sherlock took them from him, their fingers touching briefly, if only for a second. But the tiny electric shock had still been there, and had been noticed by both parties. They both met each other's gaze before smiling.

Sherlock bit into one of the tiny slices of tangerine, sucking on the juice before chewing and swallowing. John didn't bother being patient, he just shoved the whole slice into his mouth and swallowed soon after.

Sherlock stood there, eating his other slice of tangerine as slowly as he could, watching John eat his breakfast. His glass of milk had been reduced to a mere quarter-glass, and Sherlock felt the need to rush downstairs and bring him another glass. He continued to stand there, at the side of John's bed, until the last of his tangerine slice was eaten.

John looked up at Sherlock with bright eyes. "Thanks again, for this. Really appreciate it, Sherlock. How'd you get the eggs to taste so good?" he asked between mouthfuls of toast.

Sherlock kept a straight face and didn't move. He continued to watch John eat a moment more before taking his leave. John shrugged and continued to scarf down his food.

When John was done, he brought the tray downstairs and set it in the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink. Plate and glass in the sink, he quickly rinsed them out and left them to dry.

"Have you eaten?" John asked as he entered the main room.

Sherlock was flipping through channels, too quickly to really see what was on. "No," he said curtly.

John breathed in deep, but kept the sigh bottled up inside. "Right, well. I guess it's my turn to make you something, then. And you will eat every last bite of it, I don't care what you say. I don't care what excuses you give me. Understood?"

Sherlock did't bother looking up, just kept flicking the channels all too quickly.

John's shoulders sagged, erect posture faltering, as he stepped back into the kitchen to prepare some sort of breakfast for Sherlock.

* * *

><p>"I don't like ham," Sherlock snapped, cutting up his toast with a knife and fork. There was some strawberry marmalade in the back of the fridge that had surprisingly not expired yet, so John had slathered some on two pieces of toast.<p>

"Eat it, Sherlock, I'm warning you," John growled.

Sherlock looked up and searched John's eyes for something. When he couldn't find what he was looking for, he stabbed his fork (held in a fist) into a tiny piece of toast and popped it in his mouth. He chewed almost angrily.

John couldn't help but smile. He rested his chin in his palm, elbow on the table. He watched Sherlock eat his food with great curiosity. It was a rare sight, after all.

Sherlock picked at the cut-up pieces of toast, finally working his way onto the thin slice of ham. He hated round slices of ham more than he hated the obtuse shaped ones. 'Obtuse' meaning the half-round shaped (flat on one side, slightly rounded on the other) slices that were too large to fit on a single piece of toast. Sherlock _really_ didn't like eating ham, but he nibbled on it to make John happy. And a happy John meant a happy laugh and smile, and that meant a content Sherlock. He finished eating the slice of ham and glared darkly at John.

"Are you happy now, John?" he hissed, eyes narrowed.

"Yes, quite. Now finish your tea before it gets cold. I don't even want to know the state of the microwave." John pulled a smile out of a hat and patted Sherlock's knuckles. He left the table and sat down in his chair with an audible '_hnn_'. Sherlock downed his tea so he could hurry to sit across from his John.

_No, not right. Not 'his' John. John wasn't his. John was his own, nobody owned him. _

_But you want to own him, don't you?_ a little voice in the back of Sherlock's mind sneered.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the voice and cleared his throat to try and dismantle it from his brain.

_You want to own him in every way, dominate him, overcome him, you want to fu—_ "No!" Sherlock startled himself as the word tumbled past his pink lips.

John snapped his head round to see what Sherlock yelped about. "You all right? What's the matter? Sherlock?"

Sherlock raked a shaky hand through his hair and sped towards his chair. He sat down, curled his legs up to his chest, and stared blankly at the wall behind John's head.

"Er, Sherlock…you all right?" John was sincerely concerned, Sherlock could hear it in his voice, but he still remained silent.

"Okay, well, whenever you feel like talking to someone other than yourself, please, let me have the honour." John stood up and headed towards the front door.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, eyes wide. "Don't go," he said weakly.

John stopped where he was, but didn't turn around. He looked towards the ceiling and audibly sighed. "You gonna tell me why you shouted 'no' just then? If you don't want to do the washing up, you could have just said so, instead of acting like a bloody two year old."

_you want him you want him you want him_

Sherlock suddenly leapt from his chair, grabbed his phone, and ran past John out the flat. John shouted after him, but he continued to run out the first storey door and into the street.

* * *

><p><em>-Message Received-<em>

_sherlock where the fuck r u?  
>u've been gone 4 three hours<br>now. come home, wats the  
>matter?<em>

_john_

Sherlock ignored the text, returning his mobile into his trouser pocket. He scolded himself for forgetting to grab his coat on the way out the door, but in the moment, he really hadn't been thinking outerwear.

_-Message Received-_

_sherlock_

Again, Sherlock ignored the text. He was sitting in a park. He watched all sorts of people walk by. Some happy, some obviously distressed, some…almost unreadable. The same sort of look John gave sometimes that frustrated Sherlock. His heart rate sped up at the thought of John's unreadable expressions.

_you want him you want him youwanthimyouwanthimyou_

Sherlock shut his eyes tight, imagining himself playing his violin. He formed the image of himself, the violin between his fingers, under his chin, the bow running across the strings like water, creating a tuneless song…

_you need him you need him you want him so bad_

Sherlock gave a snort and inhaled deeply through his nose. He took several calculated breaths before resting his elbows on his knees, face in open palms. He sighed, an odd tiredness falling over him. Sherlock was also, strangely, very hungry. Though he had just ate. With a quick shake of his head, he sat up straight again. Eyes trained on a young woman with a dog, he tried to deduce _something_ from her. He could barely think over the screaming inside his head.

_YOU WANT HIM YOU WANT HIM YOU WANT JOHN YOU NEED TO OWN HIM TU LE DÉSIRES _

_-Message Received-_

_sherlock, please, please where  
>are you? i'm calling lestrade<br>if you don't come home right  
>now. i'm calling him, sherlock<em>

_john_

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, then began to text him back.

_I'm at Regent's Park. Happy?_

_SH_

_-Message Sent-_

It was only a minute after that Sherlock received another text.

_-Message Received-_

_bloody hell you've been five  
>minutes away this whole time?<br>stay there im on my way _

Sherlock sat on the bench for seven minutes and three seconds. He had twiddled his thumbs the entire wait, nervous as hell. What would he tell John? There was nothing to say—well, no, that was a blatant lie. There was _plenty_ to say. He just didn't want to say any of it. Not one word.

_you want him don't you / daddy's had enough now / that's what people do / you want him tu le désires / statement of the problem hypothesis materials procedure results conclusions / alkali metals alkaline earth metals transition metals metal triads lanthanides actinides nonmetals metalloids halogens noble gases hydrogen / you want him you NEED HIM you need him / sherlock / you want him you want him / sherlock look at me / YOU NEED HIM / SHERLOCK LOOK AT ME_

Sherlock blinked rapidly when he felt his world earthquake around him.

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake! Snap out of it!" John hissed, cautiously glancing from side to side. He dropped his hands from shaking Sherlock's shoulders and awkwardly held them at his sides.

Sherlock looked up, dazed, into John's wide eyes. The blue was drowning in worry, the lines of John's face hardened and seemed more defined than usual. John took a seat beside Sherlock and stared at him.

"I—I wasn't paying attention, I apologize—" Sherlock stammered out, mouth suddenly dry.

John sighed.

They didn't speak for a long while. Sherlock's right hand fell onto the bench and John patted it thrice before curling his hand in his lap.

"What is going on with you?" John finally said in a voice too low.

Sherlock took a moment to clear his expression before turning to look at the other man. "I'm not sure, John. If I told you, you'd think I was crazy."

To Sherlock's surprise, John let out a barking laugh. "_Crazy?_ Sherlock, I already think that. What's wrong? You can tell me, you know. It's not like I have anyone else to babble your secrets to."

Sherlock locked gazes with John, searching his eyes for something he couldn't quite place. When his search came up empty, he leaned back, stretching his legs straight. He relaxed, then brought a hand to his eyes. "I…I can't say."

John continued to watch him. "You mean you don't want to say."

Sherlock's hand dropped into his lap and he whipped his head to the right. His eyes narrowed. Lips parted a moment before ultimately closing.

"As I thought. Okay, fine. Whatever. I won't push you to tell me. You rarely tell me things, anyway, so I'm used to it. Doesn't matter."

Sherlock regarded John. What was he even doing? Reverse psychology? His lips rolled in towards his teeth, creating a tight line. Sherlock finally let out a sigh and his eyes grew soft.

"John, I…I've been hearing this v—" _Chirp, chirp, chirp. _Sherlock was interrupted by an incoming phone call. He flinched when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. John looked down at where the phone was, then back up at Sherlock in a matter of seconds.

"I was in the middle of something _quite_ important," he snapped, staring straight ahead.

"Sherlock, I need you. There's been another murder," Lestrade began in a hurried tone.

The detective rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. "There will always be murders, Lestrade. Did you really have to call me?"

"Yes! Sherlock, I've been at the crime scene for over two hours now, and there hasn't been one trace of evidence yet, or any idea _how_ the murder happened. I'll text you the address."

Sherlock removed the phone from his ear and ended the call, not bothering to bid goodbye. John stared at him with an odd expression. Sherlock noted the incline of his left eyebrow, the slight downturn of his lips and the way his forehead folded slightly. He also noted the odd glisten that had formed over John's deep blue eyes. Sherlock dug through his 'expressions' folder (or rather, large bookshelf) to try and figure out what John was feeling. It didn't fall under concern, nor confusion. Nor mockery, nor uncaring, or…anything. This was a typical 'John' expression, one that Sherlock could not place no matter what.

John blinked and broke the intense eye contact they had begun to hold. "Sherlock?" he asked in that same too low voice.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood up. "Another time, I suppose. Lestrade is incompetent, as per usual. Shall we?"

John nodded, jaw hanging open just a little bit. His tongue flicked out over his lips and then clenched his jaw. He then shook his head slightly. "Actually, no, I don't think my body will be able to handle it. I need sleep. Or at least a sitting position where I don't move for ten hours. You have fun, though. I'll see you at home, we'll talk then, yeah?"

Sherlock felt the sudden pang of disappointment and rejection, though he should have considered this an option. "Of course, I'll—I'll see you at home."

John gave a quick smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He stood up, hands pressing down on his knees for leverage. Sherlock checked his phone, the address now in his possession, and spun around.

"Oi! Sherlock! Wait a tic!" John suddenly cried out, his voice strained.

Sherlock ground his heels into the gravel path and turned to face John. "What is it?"

"Take my jumper. It may be a bit too small, but it's still warm. And you'll be needing it more than me." He began to pull it up over his head, his white undershirt riding up with it. Sherlock caught a glimpse of John's belly, and a flush instantly creeped up along the back of his neck and licked at his ears. He looked away—embarrassed?—and then strode towards John. John handed him the jumper and gave a true smile this time.

"Sorry I'm not as long and gangly as you are, but it'll have to do."

Sherlock took the jumper in his hand and stared at John intently. "Yes, thank you," he said quietly, the flush oozing across his collar bones. He slipped into the warm fabric _it smells of John, of honey and cinnamon and aftershave and the musty smell of the flat, of home _and when it was adjusted, the ends of the sleeves just barely made it to his wrists. The bottom hem covered the top of his trousers, so for that he was thankful.

"I'll see you soon, John," Sherlock croaked out, tugging down at the sleeves. He gave a nod and fled the park, still trying to stretch the sleeves.

John made his way back to Baker Street in just his white cotton Tee. He wrapped his arms around himself to fend off the sudden chill that enveloped him.

* * *

><p>John sat around the flat for an hour. Two. Two and a half. Then he got bored of the mindless telly. The man peered around the room and it finally hit him how horribly messy the room was. He would have to do something about that.<p>

John began to pick up odd books and slip them into the shelves, piled the loose sheets of paper onto their desk, and overall tidied up the main room. He didn't dare touch Sherlock's violin, so he left it where it was—thrown haphazardly into the corner of the room. John cleaned aimlessly, and eventually found himself in the kitchen. He tidied up what he could (not wanting to touch Sherlock's experiments, heaven forbid), and then pushed by the hallway door and entered their bathroom. He adjusted the towel on the rack so it lined up; he rinsed out the toothbrush cup and rubbed his thumb along the toothbrushes' bristles under the stream of water; John also ended up scrubbing the bottom of the tub, as it was covered in the odd spot of unknown substance. Without realizing it, John had come to a stop before Sherlock's room.

He had never entered the other man's room. Not once in his life. But through the open crack he could see that Sherlock's room was far messier than any other part of the flat. Heaving a sigh, John pushed open the door and entered.

John felt odd to be in the detective's room sans permission. Of course, he _was_ just cleaning up, and he doubted Sherlock would throw a hissy fit if he threw some dirty clothes in the laundry hamper. That is exactly what he did. The full hamper under his arm, he took a seat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and looked around. John's gaze fell over everything, soaking it up like this would be the only chance he ever got to investigate his flatmate's bedroom. A table of elements hung on the wall behind the door, and John could name a few of them. This sprung a smile to his face as he stood up. It smelled good in Sherlock's room—familiar, safe. More than home. It was hard to place, the scent. It smelled like well slept in linens (dried cold sweat, sleep, occasional nightmare) that hadn't been washed in some time. Mint. Old books. The underlying scent of chemicals. And finally, the smell of expensive fabrics.

The man left the room silently, leaving the door ajar as it had been. He left the flat to go bug Mrs Hudson for the use of her washing machine.

When the dirty clothes were in the machine and John was back upstairs in the flat, he sunk into his armchair with a huff. He let his legs stretch out before him, hands folded over his belly. He had worked up a sweat cleaning the house, and was content with the dull ache that hung over his body. John was officially tired out now. John decided to head upstairs to his room for a well-deserved nap.

* * *

><p>John awoke to shouts from downstairs. He heard a large crash and that was enough to jolt him out of bed. He had forgotten to put his pants back on, so he raced downstairs in just his cotton Tee and his boxers.<p>

"What the _hell?_" he roared at the sight of the flat. John rubbed a meaty fist at his eye, trying to get rid of the small sand crystals that had formed as he slept.

Sherlock spun on his heel and shot daggers at John. "What did you do? John, where did you put it? You _cleaned!_" Sherlock charged at John and swung a quick fist.

John had been unsuspecting and staggered back a step after the blow. Fire surged through his body and he let out a humourless chuckle. He shot out his hands and shoved Sherlock hard in the chest, so hard that the skinny man flew back onto the floor.

John had a split lip, but he didn't care. He couldn't see anything save for Sherlock's wide eyes. "The bloody hell was that for, you prat!" John exploded, fists held tightly at his side. He held his threatening stance, just _begging_ for Sherlock to stand up and try that one again.

Sherlock picked himself up off the floor and waved animated hands up over his head. "You've moved everything! Why did you clean?"

John gave another dark chuckle, staring up at the ceiling for a second. "Because you had let the flat slip into ruins while I was gone! Why wouldn't I clean, you moron?"

That shut Sherlock up. He sat in his usual armchair and crossed his arms over his chest. He was still wearing John's jumper.

"Everything was in perfect order, John, and now that you've moved it, this case will take longer than it should."

"Aw, poor babe, want me to make you some tea and biscuits, cheer you up? Sorry for cleaning the flat that we _share, _Sherlock. Jesus Christ, it won't take three years to fucking find something, just suck it up. You are such an insufferable twat sometimes, do you know that? You really are. What time is it, even?—" John stopped himself to check the nearby clock and snorted. "Oh, wonderful! It's fucking _ten at night_, and you just decide to parade around the flat like some giant oaf, whining about a bit of _cleaning_. Really, Sherlock? And you wonder why I spent so long half way across the world." With that, John fled to his bedroom.

The final statement shouldn't have stung as bad as it did, but the words buzzed around Sherlock's already-racing mind like the swarm of bees when he was a child. He raked a shaky hand through his locks and stared at the ceiling until he heard John's angry footsteps storm down the stairs. He expected him to come back into the flat, but he just continued on his way, right out the front door. Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest and somehow managed to find itself lodged in his throat. Everything went silent expect for the _tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump_ of his heartbeat, loud in his eardrums. The blood rushed to his head and clouded his thoughts. They were only angry, spiteful things, anyway, but it made his heart hammer faster.

_chase after him you insufferable twat, you moron, giant oaf, AND YOU WONDER WHY I SPENT SO LONG HALF WAY ACROSS THE WORLD AND YOU WONDER WHY I SPENT SO LONG HALF WAY ACROSS THE WORLD AND YOU WONDER—_

"Shut up!" Sherlock bellowed, startling himself. He still had his shoes on, thankfully, so he ran down the stairs in a frenzy. He slipped down the last three, but caught himself on the handrail before he tipped forward and almost knocked himself out.

He tore open the front door and looked down either side of the street. There was no sign of John. He thought he caught a glimpse of sandy blond hair, but was mistaken. His throat, still blocked by his thudding heart, tightened and worry flooded his veins. Every pump of recycled blood exploded across his body and he felt weak almost instantly. His legs wobbled and grew soft. He caught himself against the brick wall and whipped his head back and forth down either side of the street.

_AND YOU WONDER WHY I SPENT SO LONG HALF WAY ACROSS THE WORLD_

"John!" Sherlock let out, his voice failing him so it just came out as a croak. "John, please!" he begged, his voice only slightly louder than before.

Nothing.

Sherlock didn't even know if John had brought his wallet or keys with him. If he had brought his wallet, there was at least a 58% chance of him staying at his sister's house for the night. If he hadn't have brought it, there was only a 13% chance. Sherlock raked a hand through his hair again, still pressed up against the wall.

* * *

><p>John had no destination in mind. Harry's place flitted across his thoughts, but he didn't feel like explaining. Nor did he feel like fighting with a possible drunk. Not tonight.<p>

He had no idea where his legs were taking him. John was just…going. Letting off steam. He had surprised himself back at the flat. The words he had spat out raced around his head and he cringed at the effects they would have on his flatmate. Would he tell John to move out? That would be the worst possible outcome. John would be forced to live with Harry until he found a dirt cheap flat that he could pay for with what little money he had.

The night's air chilled him to the bone, despite his fleece-lined jacket wrapped tightly around him. He folded his arms across his chest and walked on into the night. The air cleared his angered head.

"_Goddammit, Sherlock,_" John hissed past his clenched teeth.

There was a quiet shuffle behind him, though John didn't notice it until it was too late. He had been shoved to the ground, hands too slow and he crashed into the concrete below. John finally freed his arms and pushed himself up, but was swiftly kicked in the gut. He groaned and collapsed, his head on fire.

"It's far past your bedtime, Johnny boy. Sherlock should have tucked you in an hour ago!" called a voice above him.

John rolled onto his back and stared up at the looming figure. He would recognize that voice anywhere, but to see that face again…John felt his stomach tighten and churn. He quickly glanced around and realized he was in some sort of alley, far from any helpful ears. He tried to sit up, but the figure pushed him down with the toe of his no doubt very expensive shoe.

"Nah ah ah, Doctor Watson. I'm really so glad you decided to go for a stroll after that spat. It's much more fun when the other party puts up a fight."

John narrowed his eyes and ripped the figure's shoe from his chest and sat up. He eventually stood and faced the man before him.

"Moriarty," John spat, pulling himself straight as he could. His hands clenched into fists.

"Who else would I be?" Moriarty gave a quick giggle and picked at an invisible piece of fluff on his suit. His face hardened and he bored his gaze into John's eyes. "I would like it if you came with me, Johnny boy. And if you don't, well—I have people to deal with fussy pets. No point in getting a new suit dirty, hmm?" Another quick rip of a giggle.

John ground his teeth together. "And why should I come with you exactly? Want to strap another bomb to me? Go ahead."

Moriarty only smiled wickedly. "No, my pet is _oh so lonely_ and wants to have a friend. Just for a little while. And who better to set up a playdate with?"

John scoffed. "Really now? You expect me to just go with you, _willingly?_ That's quite a joke there, Moriarty. Ever thought of doing stand up?"

Another giggle from Moriarty's lips. "Oh, how clever, pet. And yes, I do just expect you to follow obediently. Or else the next time you see your precious master, he'll be without that pretty little head of his."

John's face blanched. "Oh? And how do I know you're for real?"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "_Me?_ Bluffing? How cute. I think you underestimate me, John-John. Do you really want to risk his life?"

John's breathing hitched in his chest and he swallowed down a disagreeable taste. He didn't move from his spot.

The suited man only smiled again. He pulled out a phone from his inside breast pocket and dialled a number. "Sebby? Yes, have fun."

John took a step towards Moriarty with an outstretched hand. "St-stop! I'll come with you! Just don't hurt him," John snapped, fear laced with each breath.

Moriarty's smile grew. "Actually, never mind. Sherly's pet changed his mind." He slipped the phone back into its pocket and clasped his hands together. "Well then, shall we?"

John nodded frantically and strode behind the other man. He knew this was the worst plan he had ever agreed on, far worse than anything Sherlock had offered. But John didn't know what else to do. They eventually entered a black car with darkened windows and began to drive off. Before they made it out of the major part of London, Moriarty slipped a fancy sleep mask over his eyes.

"You'll leave it on, if you know what's good for you. And don't you ever, hmm?" John could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice.

_Sherlock, please, save me. Oh God, save me._


End file.
